


3:00 AM

by MaK



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, angsty relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaK/pseuds/MaK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some angsty sex in the wee hours of the morning is the perfect cure for absolutely nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:00 AM

**Author's Note:**

> had to get this out

It’s just about three AM when your phone rings and you can see your breath in the air when you sigh and slam your hand on the desk to find it. When you fall out of bed, you find it under your hip and pick it up. Jade texted you at two for some reason, but John is calling you know. “What the fuck do you want,” you ask, your voice not nearly as mean as you’d want it to be. But you’re more tired than you are irritated, so you suppose it doesn’t really matter.

“Your ass,” he states, bluntly, but you can practically feel how hot his blush is. John is such an asshole but somewhere in that fucking pit of his he’s actually pretty sensitive – you guess. It’s three AM and you really don’t give a fuck.

“Yo, dumbass, have you seen the time?”

“I assumed you were out clubbing.”

You go silent and wonder distantly if he knows about all the dudes you hook up with during the weekend when he’s too busy with college. Perhaps he does, but he probably could care less. You rub the spot between your eyebrows and sigh loudly in the phone. “John, Jesus fucking Christ, I’ll be over in ten.”

 

You arrive five minutes early dressed only in your boxers and a tee-shirt, hair messy and glasses sitting on top of your head. Now that you’re more awake than tired, you find yourself irritated and fucking horny with the promise of sex. He doesn’t live on campus, but in an apartment about a block away, which is a short drive from the flat you share with Rose. You don’t knock but just steal the key out of the potted plant near his door and walk in on him wanking on his couch. “Dave, fucking knock,” he almost shouts, stuffing his cock back in his boxers.

“Yo, John,” you say, casually. Slamming the door, you walk up to him and sit on his lap.  
You admire his eyes for a moment before shutting your own and slamming your lips against his.

He jumps and yelps against your mouth, but responds with a force that makes you dizzy. His teeth bite at your lower lip and you can feel his erection against your thigh as he palms your ass with calloused hands and you groan.

“God, Dave,” he laughs against your mouth and it’s cold and you just want him to shut up. “I made the booty call.”

“Fuckin’ literally,” you say. Hands on either side of his face, you press your lips together again and then ground yourself against his navel.

“Dave.”

“Fucking what.”

“Just,” he blows a whistle that feels warm against your neck but you want your lips back on his. “Get on my bed, and I’ll be there in a few.”

“Jesus Christ John if-!” he grabs you through your boxers and goddammit you groan and he pushes you off his lap. You stumble, knocking your knee against the glass of his table and then stubbing your toe into his bedroom door.

John is poor as hell and the apartment is really shitty but something went astray along the way and he got a queen-sized bed for this small little room. It takes up a majority of space, so it’s no surprise when you slam your other toe on the dresser almost in front of the goddamn door. Whatever, the bed is nice.

You flop down, slamming your back into the pile of springs – you can feel the dust blow up around you. He sleeps on his couch more often than not.

Anyway, you tug off your shirt and raise your hips to get off your boxers. You can hear him in the kitchen doing something, and you count to ten. John drops a pan and you grab your dick and tug. “Fuckin’ hurry up, John,” you call, digging the nails of your other hand into your hip. “John,” it comes out more of a loud sigh than a yell.

“Patience, asshole!” he shouts, dropping the same thing again.

When he finally gets his ass in the room, you pretty much just throw him on the bed – this is a feat you’ll brag about for weeks because it’s not as if John isn’t three times your size. You yank off his jeans and briefs and sure enough you’re greeted with a big and happy cock. Wonderful, you say. You glare at yourself for not being sarcastic about that. John takes off his shirt above you and your lips wrap around the head of his member and without warning you deep throat him.

“Fuck – Dave!” he grits his teeth, his legs tensing under your hands and he manages to not thrust into your mouth. Regardless, he pulls at your hair until you let go and you growl the whole way up until he puts his lips on yours, and then it turns into more of a whine. “Calm the fuck down.”

“It’s three AM.”

John picks you up onto his stomach and then lays down, allowing you to do whatever.

“You’re such a fucking prick,” you say.

“The love is in the air, Dave.”

You scoot back and lift your ass so you can plant yourself on his dick. Despite yourself, you moan and your shut your eyes and your body shutters and John just gasps beneath you.

He bites his lip so he doesn’t bother the elderly couple he lives next to, and grips at your hips as you begin to rock them. Your name escapes your lips, airy and hardly there, so you fucking bounce and you’re pretty sure it hurts or something and he fucking moans your name and you can feel his body vibrate. Fucking good.

Calling you up at three in the morning to get some goddamn sex he hardly offers ever. “What brought this on?” you ask, nails scratching at his chest.

“Homework got boring,” you’d say he confesses but it’s blunter than anything. There’s not an I love you or anything or he wants make you happy or apologize for school interfering with all this but you suppose you don’t want to hear any of it.

“I hate you.”

With that, you ground down against his member and you moan but it’s not for him and really not for anyone. While you move your ass and hips, you lean down and press your dick against his stomach and bite at his throat and collar bone. It’ll bruise in the morning, dark and purple and invisible behind his collar. You don’t love him but you want him to be yours and it’s this constant drive not in your heart but in your mind and, fuck, you want John Egbert all for yourself.

Even if he is a huge asshole and calls you up at three in the goddamn morning to – quit bitching, Dave.

He moves his body against your own and you bathe in the heat he radiates and you think he’s sheltering from the cold surrounding you. Whatever; your hands move to his hair and you tug and pull and rock your hips and it forces your whole body against his chest and you refuse to just breathe there so you bite again. John bites at his lip but a whine comes out anyway. 

You think you taste blood.

His nails claw into your ass and it stings but really it only adds to the pressure building in your abdomen as the whine in your throat escalates to a long, low moan. You sound like a porn star. When you come, you splatter white across his stomach and your own and then pull away quickly. John leans forward and goes to complain or bitch or whatever John feels like doing but your put your mouth back on his cock before he can. Being the whore you are, you’re perfect at giving people head, and it shows; in the way he thrusts into your mouth and pulls at your hair as if to take the heat away and the way he breathes your name like it’s a holy prayer. His glasses fall on top of your head and skid down your back and you scratch a long, harsh line from his ribs to his belly button. “Fuck, Dave,” he groans before his cum washes down your throat.

While he gets down from his orgasmic high, you find your boxers and steal one of his nicer shirts. You’d say it’s ironic but it’s not and you just want him to wake up in the morning and bitch to you over the phone (“Goddammit Dave! I’ve gotta present in science…” blah blah blah, you just hang up). 

When the shirt is on you swish up some spit, still tasting him in your mouth, and spit on his neck. “That’s disgusting,” he mumbles. You step on his glasses on your way out.

You regret it in the morning because there’s glass in your feet and Rose thinks it’s infected and John does, indeed, bitch to you over the phone.

You don’t care.


End file.
